Bullets
by HatsFromOslo
Summary: They had about fifty yards left.


The buffeting overhead of planes was the one thing he could hear. Sure, he could see feel the explosions; taste the salty water that sprayed onto his face every minute or so- just about all of it blood by now. He could see the ferocious barking of orders his many sergeants were screaming at one another. He could definitely see his people die. There was no problem seeing that. But curiously enough, all he could hear with the thick buffeting emitted from the what seemed like a never ending group of planes. Once in a while the buffeting would stop to be replaced by a cloud of fire and ash and silence. But then it would just begin again. He kind of hated it.

A thick sheet of blood covered his face, of course he had no idea how much of it was his. It coated everything; seeped through his lips; filmed over his eyes. He raised his arms to rub the liquid out of his eyes the best he could. He never knew how much his arms hurt until then. When he opened them again he could see they were finally making their way back to the edge of the beach from the hours he and his allies and all of their troops had just spent ashore- or at least he thought it was hours. Minutes, hours, days, years. They tended to all blended together.

He fell again, palms falling into the sand in a glorious fashion that inflicted a great deal of pain.

"_Motherfucker!"_

"England, sir! We need you on that boat _right now!_ Let's go!" He could feel someone- an American he decided- grab underneath his arm and pull him to his feet, adding a not-so-gentle shove towards a obnoxiously humming boat.

He fell. The sprinkling of sand dusted his body and somehow reached his eyes. It stung like hell.

_Miraculous_, he thought.

England paused, half expecting someone to pick him up again and shove him towards the boats. He turned around and saw the American soldier who had picked him up before face down, blood covering every inch of his body. Dead.

"Shit."

He whipped his head around again. He estimated the boats were roughly fifty yards away. If he ran fast and now, he could make it. But he couldn't leave now. Not just yet.

He settled his back as comfortably as he could into one of the small crooks the sand made in one of the massive mounds that served as their only defense that lined the French crimson shores. Head buried in his knees, England shivered and took the first breath since he saw the dead American who tried to help him to the boats. That stung too.

England reluctantly raised his head and felt the first few drops of rain fall on his face. If it wasn't enough that he was already soaked from the salty ocean and shaken from the exploding bombs and hopeless from the concentrated death that surrounded him, it had to rain. Of course it did.

Looking to his left, England saw a few soldiers huddled together a few yards away. They clung to each other with passion, as if it was all that would save them from their German enemies. One of the men slowly turned around the sand mound he hid behind and fell to the ground instantly. His friends wept. England started to hang his head again but something that landed in front of the soldiers who just lost their friend caught his eye first. Something small. Then he saw what it was and with all of his energy, he ducked into his knees.

He couldn't hear it. Just the damn planes again. England refused to look in the direction of where the grenade went off, knowing full well what would meet his eyes. Instead he looked to his right where all that greeted him was a gentle showering of sand. He ducked his head again and raised it a few seconds later to be was greeted by a sight that he sure would cripple him if he didn't use the very low amount of energy he had left to keep his small amount of sanity.

America's dim blue eyes darted around the beach; sometimes at his soldiers desperately trying to get him further down the beach, sometimes at all of the men dying on the beach. England knew that America hated when his soldiers put him first and he knew America thought of each death of any of his or any of his allies men as more of a devastating tragedy than the last. Whether the emotion painted across his face was more annoyance than depression or the other way around was unreadable for England. That was the first and only time his face was unreadable to England. That scared him more than anything else, the fact that he didn't recognize America. Didn't know his emotions. Didn't know him.

They locked eyes. The pure desperate depression that swirled in his eyes broke England's heart. His people, innocent people being killed in this barbarian fashion broke him all the way to the core. America ducked into his knees as an explosion went off behind him and continued to keep his head down for a few minutes. Blond hair absolutely drenched and falling over his face down to the bridge of his nose, he looked like a crying child who had lost his parents in a store. But of course he hadn't. He was loosing his people by the second and there was nothing he could do about it. Raising his head, he looked forward. He squinted and brushed his bangs back, sudden determination on his face. He was the fucking hero. Nothing was ever going to change that.

Suddenly, he sprinted. Wincing a couple times as bullets flew by his head, America ran the twenty feet separating the two men. America nearly crashed into England as he landed next to him by his knees, sending a fair amount of sand into the air.

"You're alive," England breathed.

"Of course I am! You ever doubted me? I have to say I'm a little disappointed," America grinned. Not just a grin, a smile that could blind someone if they weren't accustomed to it already. It was as if every single person who had smiled ever in human existence morphed together in America's mouth and smiled at the same time. It was a grin no one would ever deliver in the middle of a war, let alone World War II. In the middle of a battle. On a beach. Soaked in blood. Except if you are the one person on Earth who is capable of a smile that big in such a horrid time. That one person would of course be America. And of course he was.

America quickly ducked into his knees again and without any known reason, England did too. A loud blast filled England's ears but then quickly was washed away. Just the planes again. Those damn planes.

When England lifted his head again America was looking out towards ocean, eyes squinted and chin slightly pointed towards the sky in a heroic motion. Sure, he looked like the hero he proclaimed to be but England couldn't help but notice a weak shake in his hands that clutched around his gun, knuckles almost white. England lowered his eyes to the ground. America shouldn't be here. He's young, inexperienced, immature. He didn't belong in the horrid theater of war, despite his many previous wars. Not here, not this war.

"We need to get to those boats," America's voice broke England's concentration as he lowered himself a bit to be a eye level with England.

"No shit," England grunted in response.

They both looked out towards the ocean. England was dumbfounded. Anytime a possible path opened up, it closed. Grenade, dead body, a shower of bullets. There was no way of getting to the ocean. They were screwed.

"Alright. We run. Doesn't matter where, just run."

"What? Are you mad? There is no way-" England was cut off by another blast a couple yards away.

"We need to get out of here," America told him. He said it with determination. England could swear he heard a trace of desperation in there as well, but he dismissed it. No time to question. They needed to get out of there.

"Alright." Staring ahead, England took a deep breath. _Alright. _

"One."

"Two."

"Uhh, America? Quick question. Can you see anything without your glasses?"

America looked down at England and smiled. "Not a thing."

Roughly grabbing his wrist, America pulled them out of the little crook they had been hiding in and ran. Sprinting together down the beach, England could barely feel a thing. Not the bullets whizzing past him, not the rain on his face, not the ground below his feet. He couldn't even hear the planes anymore. That was enough of a victory for England.

He could see every once and a while America turn around and shoot a few rounds before turning around again to continue sprinting. England didn't really approve of the action, but he didn't care enough to say anything. His first and only priority was to get him and America on a boat. Now.

He almost didn't believe it when they reached the small green boats hovering in the ocean. The breath he let loose in pure relief was freeing. They were going to be alright.

But something wasn't right. It wasn't explainable but he could feel it. A pain, a feeling. Something wasn't right.

England saw America out of the corner of his eye. He was standing next to him, seemingly unharmed. Panting, but unharmed.

He did a mental check of himself. He couldn't feel any pain, any blood leaving his body. It was just the uneasy rush that overwhelmed his body that pained him. And he had no idea why.

Then he saw it. It started as no more than a pinhead. A faint red pinhead on the lower left side of America's chest. Then it grew to about the size of a nickle. In about thirty seconds it had grown to a fist-sized blood spot right where America's heart would be.

England stared at it. He refused to mention it, convincing himself it was just blood from the water. It was just water. Confused, America followed his gaze down to his chest. He lifted his hand and felt the spot, gingerly touching it with his fingers. When his hand came back bloody, his eyes widened.

"Ooh."

His knees bucked and eyelids fluttered close. England sprinted to him just in time to catch America, stopping him before crashing with the boat's hard floor.

"America! Medic! Where the hell is the medic?" England screamed, refusing to tear his eyes from the man in his arms.

A swarm of medics surrounded the bleeding man, gently pushing England away in the process.

"Sir, you have to leave."

"I'm not-"

"Sir!" The medic insisted and pushed him away, filling the void England left quickly.

England watched as they tore at America's tattered shirt, revealing the gushing wound. The fuzz that pounded in his head didn't allow him to hear anything they were talking about, so he just watched.

It seemed like hours before the medics sat back, blood drenching their hands to their wrists.

"There's nothing we can do."

That didn't reach his ears correctly.

"There's- there's nothing we can do. The- the bullet is so deep in his chest that- We can't- I'm so sorry."

_No._

The shocked soldiers backed away from him slowly, almost as if any unnecessary movement would cause another minute to be cut from the dieing man's life. England could barely feel his arms reach forward, crawling to the almost lifeless America. He knelled beside him and just watched. There was nothing he could do but watch.

"I'm sorry," England whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."

"For... for what?" Though below a whisper, America's voice came out tragically strong.

"For everything. The Revolution, 1812, not being there for you. For getting you involved in this war. This stupid war. This... this isn't your war."

"I..." His eyes rolled upward as he struggled to swallow. "I should be the one that's sorry."

"How so?" England had managed to pick up his back and neck and clung to him. His ally, his brother, his best friend.

"I shouldn't... I shouldn't... I shouldn't have-"

"Shh. It's not your fault. It's not your fault." He brushed back his wet and bloody bangs from his forehead. A comforting motion England would do when America would come in his room in the middle of the night from nightmares, tears rolling down his cheeks.

America somehow managed to smile. He was dieing and bleeding out on a boat in the middle of the ocean during World War II yet he still managed to smile. Strong and happy as usual.

"Thank you."

A tear fell down England's cheek. He looked up to the sky, not wanting to believe it. He wasn't dieing. He couldn't be dieing.

England looked down at him and managed a smile. "Anytime."

America's smile turned faint as his muscles started to relax more than they should. He looked up one more time and swallowed before his eyes fell and his body grew limp.

_No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No._

His chest rose one last time as his head fell into England's stomach and his eyelids gently lowered. England brushed his hair back one more time with trembling and sad hands before he fell forward over America's chest and sobbed. His bright hair fell into the bloody ocean water that slowly crept along the bottom of the boat as he added his tears to the combination.

"_Please. Please,"_ he hysterically begged. The heat from America's body was beginning to fade as the coldness from the ocean water began to creep in. England finally sat back on his hind legs and gently removed his arms from America's back. He fell back into the side of the boat and looked up where the sky was clearing and the sun was actually beginning to shine. It was the first time in months.

He looked back down where America lifelessly lay. None of the other soldiers dared to touch him yet. His golden blond hair moved to the thin film of water in the boat, the water careful to space out every hair to make the motion look graceful. His fingers curled up in claws and jolted with empty energy along with the motion of the boat. His bare and bloody stomach muscles mockingly glistened in the new sunlight. A faint smile still sat upon his lips. He looked at peace.

"I'm so sorry," England whispered as another tear rolled down his cheek and fell into the water.

_Title based off of the murderous bits of metal that kill people every day. My original title was going to be _Time_ after the _Inception _score track by the same name which I listened to a lot while writing this (absolutely beautiful, I highly recommend listening to it) but I saw another story named Time and I felt unoriginal. So I went with something probably as equally unoriginal. Shhh._

_Story based off of another story I read on of a war scene that I loved. I then watched _Saving Private Ryan_ and became even more inspired. This story needed to leave my head. I was in the mood for a war fic and I thought these would be the perfect characters. I loosly based this off of The Invasion of Normandy but this is not set there. Just an idea I had in my head. I'm quite happy with this. I hope you enjoyed it._

_Thanks for reading! _


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